


Curling Smoke

by patster223



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Found Family, I just...love Grizzop okay, Other, Smoking, Spoilers through the end of S4, five things fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:09:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25854127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/patster223/pseuds/patster223
Summary: “Weird that you smoke when you care so much about death and all that,” Sasha says.“Yeah, yeah, I’m a bit of a hypocrite,” Grizzop says. “Don’t point out the irony to Hamid; he’d never let me live it down.”Five times that Grizzop shared a cigarette with someone.
Relationships: Grizzop drik Acht Amsterdam/Vesseek
Comments: 16
Kudos: 44





	Curling Smoke

**Author's Note:**

> Don’t smoke, folks, but do use smoking as a thematic framework for a fanfiction. Spoilers through the end of season 4.

_**1\. Vesseek** _

It’s Vesseek who gets Grizzop started on smoking. Not because they pressure him—Vesseek, along with anyone who’s ever met Grizzip, knows that it’s impossible to pressure him into anything—but because Grizzop likes Vesseek. He likes them, and on his last night in Berlin Vesseek asks him if he wants a cigarette, so he says yes. 

“Didn’t know you smoked,” Vesseek says, surprised but smiling when Grizzop takes the offered cigarette.

“Never tried it,” Grizzop says with a shrug. “Us Artemis lot don’t usually make a habit of it—hurts your lungs, gives away your position, smells something awful.”

“Aw, defying Artemis for little old me, ‘Zop?” Vesseek says with a toothy grin, lighting the cigarette for Grizzop.

Grizzop stares at them defiantly, takes a sharp drag off the cigarette—

And immediately begins coughing. Vesseek pats him on the back with a cackling laugh.

“N-not a chance,” Grizzop wheezes out. He blinks out a few tears that feel cool on his face compared to the burn deep in his chest—a burn that should be the opposite of and yet Grizzop knows to be a sibling to the feeling of drowning. 

“You do this to yourself on purpose?” Grizzop reprimands, wiping the tears from his face.

“I don’t do what _you_ just did at all,” Vesseek says, still grinning at Grizzop’s attempt. They grab Grizzop’s hand and guide it so that it lays on their own chest. “Come on, it’s supposed to be like this.” 

Vesseek lifts a cigarette to their lips, inhaling more deeply than Grizzop had, with none of his beginner’s hurry and impatience. It’s a practiced movement, slow and sure. Grizzop knows this because he can feel evidence of it—the steady rise and fall of Vesseek’s chest—beneath his hand.

“Try again,” Vesseek murmurs. And then shrugs. “Or don’t. The Artemis lot ain’t wrong, it’s shit on your lungs.”

“They’re all humans,” Grizzop says. He slowly flexes the hand trapped under Vesseek’s. “They worry more about that kind of thing.” 

“Hah, forgot about that. Guess longevity isn't all it's cracked up to be, eh, Grizz?” 

Grizzop doesn’t comment but also doesn’t try to free his hand. Instead, he lifts the cigarette to his lips and tries again. This time, he inhales as if he’s about to fire an arrow: slow, steady, with a singular purpose in mind. He’s rewarded with a feeling similar to when he’s looking down his bow: a sharp focus that pulls all his senses together, that draws everything into a single point. When he shoots a bow, that point is his prey, but here, tonight, it is his lungs, light and filled to bursting with a burn that soothes rather than scorches; his mouth, hot and metallic with the taste of ash; his mind, focused and sharp as the nicotine enters his blood; and Vesseek, smiling and warm beneath his hand.

Grizzop exhales a cloud of smoke, smiling in return as Vesseek blinks it away. “I’ll miss you, Ves.”

Vesseek breathes out, the cold night air making their exhale plume like smoke. “I’ll miss you too, Grizzop.” 

They spend Grizzop’s last night in Berlin leaning against one another as they go through the rest of Vesseek’s pack, smoking and trading vague promises of what they’ll do upon Grizzop’s return, until it’s finally time for him to leave. 

_**2\. Azu** _

During their first night staying in the Aphrodite temple, Grizzop feels—restless. It’s too comfortable here, surrounded by all these pillows and blankets, and sweltering hot too, the bodies of his companions and the fading heat of the day making him sweat in his breastplate. It’s nothing like Amsterdam or Berlin or Prague. If Vesseek were here, they would remind him that that’s a good thing— _those Artemis lot always meant to be moving forward, aren't they, Grizz?  
_

Ugh. The damned heat makes him more sentimental than is useful. Grizzop swears under his breath and fetches a cigarette from his pack, moving silently to the window. 

Or, he assumes he’s moving silently, but it’s not long before Azu sidles up alongside him. Grizzop curses the Artemis lot for being right about smoking giving away your position. 

“Wotcher,” Grizzop mutters, blowing smoke out the window. He glances at Azu. He is, much to his irritation, still much shorter than her despite being on a step stool to reach the window. 

Azu cocks her head, frowning. “Are you upset?”

“No.”

“Oh. You just...seem upset. And it’s quite late to be up right now.” 

Grizzop shrugs. “Could say the same to you.”

“I wanted to make sure you were all doing well on your first night here.” She laughs at herself, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. “Apparently it was enough to keep me up too.”

“Yeah, I couldn't sleep either," Grizzop says. "Happens to me a lot—never was one for idling about. Smoke?”

Azu raises her eyebrows but takes the offered cigarette, though she has to crouch to allow Grizzop to light it. 

“It seems odd for a paladin of Artemis to smoke,” Azu says curiously. “You all seem to be focused on such practical things—smoking is hardly practical.” 

“Oh, and I bet you and your lot smoke all the time, after all your trysts and whatnot,” Grizzop says irritably. It’s rude, even for him, but he can’t quite help it. His ears burn as he considers whether Azu, with her connection to Aphrodite—damned nosy love goddess—can sense why Grizzop actually smokes. 

Azu actually blushes at Grizzop’s words, much to his twin satisfaction and shame. 

“W-we don't just do trysts,” Azu says delicately. “Love is about many things.”

Azu takes a drag off her cigarette. She wrinkles her nose at the taste, and yet, despite herself, she still manages to smoke in the way that she apparently does all things: with open and unabashed curiosity, caught in the pleasure and pain of the moment as her cheeks flush and her breaths sputter in-between drags. 

“Practicality can be many things too,” Grizzop says. His thoughts, scattered and sullen before, now feel sharper thanks to the nicotine and the soothing timbre of Azu’s voice. “It’s not all camouflage and combat boots.”

“It is a little bit that, though,” Azu teases.

“Well, it’s a damn sight more practical than pink armor.”

“Our armor is about making an impression—being a beacon of hope and love for someone,” Azu says. She exhales her smoke into the night, looking up at the moon before glancing down at Grizzop. “Is that not also practical?” 

“Not when you glow in the dark doing it,” Grizzop grumbles. 

“Hah! I suppose that's fair enough. You’re very interesting, Grizzop.” Azu hums happily, studying the lit ember of her cigarette. “Perhaps cigarettes are practical enough for Artemis after all. They did give me a chance to get to know you a bit better.”

“Of course that’s how you’d frame it,” Grizzop sighs, though there’s no real heat in it. That has died down, replaced with the smoke in his throat and buzzing contentment in his chest. “We in for a lot of these little philosophical discussions, you and I?” 

“Depends if you invite me for another cigarette, I suppose,” Azu says with a smile. She stubs the cigarette out on the windowsill and gives Grizzop a nod. “Goodnight, Grizzop. Don’t stay up too late. Wouldn’t be practical to lose sleep when we’ve got so much to do tomorrow.” 

Grizzop mutters out a goodnight, not too keen on being told what to do. But Azu is right, and the smoke and the conversation in equal measure have settled the constant vibrating that rests beneath his skin. Grizzop takes a final drag, stubs out his cigarette with Azu’s, and goes to bed. 

_**3\. Hamid** _

The next time Grizzop shares one of his cigarettes, he’s furious: firstly because it’s with Hamid, and secondly because it’s been too long since his _last fucking cigarette_ with all the mess that’s been going on. 

“Grizzop?” Hamid says tentatively. He’s peeking from behind the patio door, watching Grizzop pace across the balcony.

“Not now, Hamid,” Grizzop growls. He takes a desperate drag of his cigarette and curses himself when he breathes in too quickly, when the sharp burn in his throat and mouth causes him to cough and salivate. Fucking drooling on the stones of Hamid’s stupid family home right after he lectured him about justice. 

“Grizzop! Are you okay?” Hamid rushes onto the balcony and pats Grizzop on the back. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you-“

“You don’t mean to do a lot of things,” Grizzop snaps, his voice even hoarser than usual. He clears his throat. “What do you want?” 

“Well—I wanted to talk about that, actually," Hamid admits. "About me doing things I don’t mean. I...I know that I've made mistakes, Grizzop, and I _am_ trying to move forward from them. I think we agree on that much. _But,_ I need you to know that I _do_ believe in the things I’m doing now, and I _can’t_ believe that trying to help my family is just another mistake-”

Grizzop thrusts his pack of cigarettes under Hamid’s nose, interrupting his words.

“If you’re going to try to moralize at me while I’m smoking, at least smoke with me,” Grizzop says shortly. 

Hamid, socially adept enough to realize the peace offering for what it is, takes the cigarette without hesitation, though not without comment. 

“A bit rich of you to talk about moralizing,” he says mildly. 

“I got the qualifications for it,” Grizzop says, tapping the Artemis symbol on his breastplate. “Where’s yours?”

“How about the fact that I’m doing my best?” Hamid asks in exasperation. “Though, that’s never really good enough for you, is it, Grizzop?"

Hamid's frustration reminds him of Sasha's from earlier that day: frustration at Grizzop pushing too hard and yelling too loudly and preaching too much. The similarity hurts more than the burn in his lungs can cover up.

“Do you really want to have this argument again?” Grizzop sighs. “Because what I stand for hasn’t changed. Smoke your stupid cigarette.”

“Some of us don’t have the luxury of having a god to tell us what we stand for,” Hamid persists.

“Tough. Now what did I say about smoking your cigarette?”

“I, ah..." Hamid deflates a bit. "I don’t have a lighter.” 

“What, you can’t use your fire to do it?” Grizzop says, his words admittedly more childish than they are righteous. The pain of Hamid's words combined with the ritual of smoking has centered Grizzop, allowing anger and hurt and smoke and ash to collect and mingle briefly in his chest before escaping his lungs in a long exhale. He’s still angry at Hamid, but he’s never been angry enough to abandon his pack. Even if Hamid sometimes reminds him of a pup just as much as he does a wolf. 

“My fire is a bit more destructive than that,” Hamid says quietly. “Not really controlled enough to be, ah, useful out of a fight.”

Hmm. So at least he’s aware of the wolf. Grizzop gestures Hamid closer.

“I used to know someone who could cast spark,” Hamid says, watching Grizzop light the cigarette. “He used to light his pipe with it."

“A lighter works just as well,” Grizzop says, gesturing with his.

“I suppose. I still miss him sometimes,” Hamid says, almost absentmindedly, as if the allure of the cigarette’s ember had distracted him enough to abandon the practiced oration he's been affecting ever since they returned to his childhood home. “It all...got a bit much for him, I suppose. I’m trying not to let that happen to me. I’m trying...so hard.” 

“I know,” Grizzop says simply. “And you’ll keep trying until you get it right—that’s life. And,” Grizzop says, as Hamid opens his mouth to interrupt, “if you don’t know what _right_ is, then you keep trying until you figure that out too. Or, you know, just visit a temple—much easier way to do it, mind you.” 

Hamid chuckles but nods agreeably, raising the cigarette to his lips.

“Hmm,” he says, with none of the amateurish gagging and sputtering of a first-time smoker. “It tastes really...mild? Like not much of anything, really. A lot less intense than I remember when I tried one back at school. But it’s nice.”

“Really?” Grizzop says, interested despite himself. Even after all this time, the itch in his lungs when he craves a cigarette still satisfies the restless hunter in him. He can't wrap his mind around describing the experience as _mild._

“Must be the d-dragon in me,” Hamid says, still stumbling over the word despite the evidence of his draconic ancestry in his features and—apparently—his lungs. 

“Ah, so being a sorcerer means you come pre-filled with hot air, then?” Grizzop says with a grin.

Hamid laughs. “That’s rude!” 

“Eh, wouldn’t be the first time I've been accused of that,” Grizzop says.

Hamid gives Grizzop a steady look over his next inhale, though he’s still smiling slightly as he speaks. 

“You know I won’t stop trying to protect my family,” he says. “I’m not here to—moralize to you about it, Grizzop. It doesn’t matter if you think I’m right, as much as I... _do_ want you to think I’m right. But really, I just came out here to let you know that I can help my family—I can _care_ about my family—and be on the side of justice at the same time. I need you to know that.”

“All right,” Grizzop says, stubbing out his cigarette on the wall of Hamid’s balcony, straightening his armor, and turning to face him with a sharp grin. “Then prove it to me. Let’s go.” 

_**4\. Wilde** _

“Is this an apology for the time you kicked me?” Wilde says mildly after Grizzop shoves a cigarette into his hands. “That was weeks ago, Grizzop—an apology is quite unnecessary.” 

"Agreed—an apology _would_ be unnecessary," Grizzop says with a sharp grin.

Wilde rests his cheek on his hand—a difficult task considering the anti-magic manacles that chain his wrists together, but he manages it with at least a little panache. He _is_ still Wilde, curse or no curse. 

“You know, sometimes people feel remorse after hurting others,” Wilde says. “Surely they teach that in the Temple of Artemis?”

“They teach us to protect our own. Hence why you’re alive right now,” Grizzop says, gesturing to the manacles. “So no, I’ve got nothing to apologize for. You hurt Sasha, so I hurt you; and now, the bastards who cast this curse hurt you, so I'm going to hurt them. Paladin's promise."

“Ah, am I considered one of yours then? Why, Grizzop, I’m flattered," Wilde says with a smile.Though crushing exhaustion has turned his voice into something dull and monotone, he still manages to affect a lilting, teasing tone for Grizzop.

Grizzop’s face heats. The teasing, the promise of cigarette smoke in the air, the cold of the cell—it all reminds him of Vesseek, except that Wilde is nothing like Vesseek. This man is tall and nosy and prim and annoying and strange in all of the ways Vesseek isn’t, and yet Grizzop still finds himself thinking of them. 

“Shut up and let me light your cigarette,” Grizzop grumbles. “ _You_ don’t get to fall asleep until our clerics have finished searching your stuff for any more curses that could be having lingering effects. I'm certainly not going to keep you awake the whole time, so let's hope the nicotine will do."

Wilde nods and takes a grateful drag off the cigarette. He’s practiced at it, which doesn’t surprise Grizzop. Wilde seems like a man who has tried most things—something that both fascinates and bewilders someone as practical and single-minded as Grizzop. 

“Do you ever feel remorseful then?” Grizzop asks curiously. “No way you haven’t hurt people, being in your position.”

“Of course I have,” Wilde says, leaning against the wall and taking another pull off the cigarette. “Sasha, for starters. Hamid too, if we’re counting bad things that happened to people I’m responsible for. Bertie is dead, obviously, though you’ll pardon me in saying that that was rather his own doing. By that metric, I suppose I hurt Zolf as well, though you never knew him. I’m sure you and Azu will be added to the list, after a time.”

He says the words calmly, as if he were simply reporting on the weather, but his eyes—dull and sunken from lack of sleep—look...sad. Grizzop is so tired of his people looking so sad.

“What, no faith in us?” Grizzop says, aiming for playful and landing at something closer to petulant. “Bit rude given that I just saved your life.”

Wilde snorts. "You know, a lot of people accuse me of being rude."

“Gee, I wonder why?”

“I suppose that’s something you and I have in common,” Wilde muses. He yawns. “Imagine that, us having something in common?”

“Makes me think I should reconsider my life choices,” Grizzop mutters. 

Grizzop feels a heat against his fingers and looks down. His cigarette’s ember is close to burning him, the wrapper half-gone to ash without him having taken a single drag. He’s been too wired to notice, too busy tracking Wilde’s hands to make sure he doesn't accidentally drop the cigarette onto the bedsheets. 

Grizzop lifts what remains his forgotten cigarette to his lips and inhales. He’s grateful for the heat in his mouth, the sharpness of the nicotine shepherding his thoughts into something more coherent, but he still feels unmoored here, adrift without the majority of his pack. 

“No faith then?” Grizzop asks, half-looking to pick a fight. Arguing about religion—or anything, really—while sharing a smoke would at least feel familiar. 

Wilde is mostly too exhausted to take the bait, though. He only shrugs and says, “Of a sort, though not in the sort of higher power that you deal with. I used to be a writer, you know."

"Really? Never heard of you."

"Yes, well, I'm a bit busy with all this to write much these days," Wilde says, gesturing at his manacles. "But the training tends to stick; and after years of writing for whatever rag would publish me, I mostly learned to have faith in the fact that if I just wrote down the things I saw, I could make them quite interesting indeed. I’m lucky in that sense, I suppose—even an amateur poet could make a thrilling tale out of knowing people like you and your team.” 

"...Huh."

Wilde raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“Nothing,” Grizzop says, looking away. He'd never thought about Wilde outside of his capacity as their boss, but now he suddenly wonders if he'll ever get to read any of Wilde's work—if he'll ever see a version of himself in those pages. Grizzop takes another drag of his cigarette and shakes his head. “You’re just more sentimental than I thought you were.” 

“Awful, isn’t it?”

Grizzop cackles, the sudden motion releasing the smoke and heat trapped in his lungs. It's a waste of smoke, but honestly it feels great, makes him feel warm and light despite the cold of Wilde's cell.

“This whole thing must be torture for you,” Wilde says with a grin. His voice is low and soft, both from the smoke and the sleep deprivation. “A practical paladin of Artemis having to care for a sentimental bard.” 

“Well, sentiment has its uses too,” Grizzop murmurs. He clears his throat and begins stubbing out the remaining nub of his cigarette against the wall. “Stop smoking. They should be done searching your stuff soon, and I don’t want you awake any longer than you already have been.”

“If you say so,” Wilde says without fight. He stubs out his cigarette next to Grizzop’s, their hands only a breath apart for a strange, silent moment as as they rid themselves of the evidence of their tobacco. 

Then there’s a knock at the wall, and Grizzop turns away to find another paladin of Artemis outside the cell. 

“No evidence of curses in his belongings,” the paladin says with a curt nod. “He should be good to go to sleep.”

“Great. Thanks.” 

The paladin departs, and Grizzop shakes his head. “Time for me to go and for you to sleep. Take care, Wilde.”

“You too, Grizzop. Give everyone else my regards,” Wilde says, yawning so widely his jaw cracks, exhaustion finally catching up with him without Grizzop and nicotine to act as distractions.

Grizzop hesitates at the door. Seeing Wilde yawn—it reminds Grizzop of his last night in Berlin, when Vesseek determinedly stayed up into the wee hours of the morning with Grizzop no matter how much their yawns began to interrupt their speech. Sentiment wells up inside Grizzop like smoke curling up from a fire, and he says, “Hey, Oscar?” 

“Yes?” 

“If you ever write down anything about me...be sure to include the time I kicked you in the balls.”

Oscar gives a hearty laugh, one that's rough and thready with smoke and fatigue, and lies down in his cot.

“If you say so,” he murmurs, eyes already closed as Grizzop walks out of the cell. 

_**5\. Sasha** _

Rome is shit. Magic barely works, maps don’t work at _all,_ and Grizzop’s cigarette lighter doesn’t work for _shit._

“Stupid thing,” Grizzop curses. Between the argument with Eldarion, the uncertainty of Vesseek’s fate, and the knowledge that he needs to endure _another_ interplanar portal to complete their mission, he could use a damned cigarette.

“Here," Sasha says.

Grizzop jumps, cursing again. Even after working together across three countries, he still hasn’t managed to predict when Sasha will come sneaking up on him. He suspects that Sasha takes a great deal of professional pride in this fact. 

Sasha stands before him impassively, offering a lighter. One that’s a bit more battered than Grizzop’s, but with mechanisms old enough to perhaps withstand Rome’s influence for at least one light.

“Thanks,” Grizzop says, holding up the cigarette to her. She raises an eyebrow, probably at his willingness to let his guard down around her even after all this time, but lights the cigarette for him.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” Grizzop says. He’s usually pretty aware of other smokers, and he feels like he would’ve noticed Sasha going out for a smoke break, sneaking talents aside. 

Sasha raises her other eyebrow to join the first, as if daring him to say the latter thought aloud. 

“I don’t smoke,” she says. “It gives away your position. People can smell you, see the smoke, that sort of thing. My cousin did, though. This was his.”

“Fair enough," Grizzop says, inhaling. The familiar burn in his mouth feels good, better than the acrid, dusty burn that’s been lodged in his throat by the heat of Rome. "Did you know that one of the people inside that portal is the person who gave me my lighter?”

“I’m sorry,” Sasha says simply.

“Stupid, isn’t it?” Grizzop sighs. “First they nearly get me killed by getting me addicted to cigarettes, now they nearly get me killed by getting themself kidnapped.” 

“People really should be better about getting kidnapped,” Sasha says, pursing her lips. Grizzop startles when he notices that she’s got a cigarette—one of _his_ cigarettes, when did she manage to palm that?—against her lips, though it remains unlit. 

Sasha notices him noticing and cheers him with the cigarette. 

“I’m more important than a thing,” she says, pointing to the cigarette, and even through her monotone Grizzop can tell that the reference to his words is equal parts mocking and grateful. 

Grizzop chuckles. “Yeah, yeah, I’m a bit of a hypocrite. I won’t kill myself for a nice dagger, but I’ll kill myself for a cigarette. Don’t point out the irony to Hamid; he’d never let me live it down.” 

“Mmm, he probably already knows—just hasn’t had a chance to mention it yet. Hamid doesn’t let that kind of stuff go. I suppose he’s nice like that.” Sasha chews on the end of her cigarette. “Weird that you smoke when you care so much about death and all that, though.” 

Grizzop sighs. He takes a drag that’s probably too deep for his own good and is rewarded with a creeping burn that makes his eyes water, that sends a rasp of a cough to the back of his throat.

“I'm not going to live long enough for lung disease to be an issue,” Grizzop manages. “Doesn’t mean that I’m going to go risking my life without thinking about it, mind-“ Grizzop gives her a pointed look “-but I don’t think cigarettes will be the thing that kills me.” 

“Probably not,” Sasha says, chewing thoughtfully on the tip of the cigarette. “The way our luck is going, it’ll probably be something weirder.”

“What, like getting eaten by a weird, Roman dog creature?”

“Or getting popped by Hamid’s fireball.”

“Oof, barbecue would be quite the way to go. Still better than getting bored to death by Eddy talking about Apollo, I reckon.”

“Not as bad as getting teleported into the middle of a sand dune by Einstein.” 

They’re both cackling at this point as they list increasingly stupid ways to die in Rome—or, well, Grizzop is cackling. Mindful of the danger here, he tries to hush his laughter like he used to when he was in the middle of paladin lessons and suddenly remembered a joke of Vesseek’s. Sasha’s laugh is naturally quieter, more present in the lines near her mouth than in her voice. 

“I think about death a lot more since, you know, being undead,” Sasha says, still smiling despite the morbidity of the topic. “It’s weird, I...I think I care more. I know you thought I took stupid risks in Damascus, but I do care more. I didn’t refuse your cigarette just because it would make me worse at sneaking. I thought about...how it wouldn’t be good for me.” Sasha wrinkles her nose. “It’s weird.” 

“It’s good,” Grizzop says. He drops the cigarette and crushes it with his boot. “Hey, who knows, maybe when we get out of here I’ll quit smoking too.” 

“Don’t let Hamid hear you say that,” Sasha says with a smirk. “He’ll hold you to it.”

“You could hold me to it too, you know,” Grizzop says, nudging her thigh with his shoulder. 

“Hah. Maybe I will.” Sasha nods toward the building. “Cmon, let’s do this.”

Grizzop walks with her, still craving a cigarette, but knowing that the itch in his chest will be more than satisfied by the work ahead, by moving forward and protecting his pack. 

_**\+ 1** _

In the end, Grizzop is true enough to his word; he does never smoke another cigarette after that. 

He doesn’t feel the loss keenly: not here. Here, in the rolling hills and forests of Artemis’ kingdom, the climate is cool enough that the air still stings his lungs, snapping his thoughts into something bright and sharp; when he exhales, a satisfying bloom of cold, smoky air follows his breath; and his body, even without the aid of a smoke, still feels hot and alive in contrast to the world around him. 

He breathes out a cloud of smoke into the cold air, not particularly caring if it gives his position to his prey. There is too much time here to worry about something so small. It’s an abundance that Grizzop has never had, and it settles something inside him that nicotine could only grasp at. 

Grizzop grins. He imagines, one day very far into the future, that he’ll share this scenery with his friends as he once did his cigarettes: as a gift, something warm and familiar to bring them closer to him and shelter them from the world. It’s something he waits for eagerly but not with impatience—here, with the bite of crisp air filling his lungs, he is content to wait. 


End file.
